


Like Confetti

by cielelyse



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, Kinda?, Living Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Tragedy, if you want pure fluff please pretend chapter 3 doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cielelyse/pseuds/cielelyse
Summary: Akaashi Keiji dies in a car accident on December 7th, the year he turns 21.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 41
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

Maybe this is how the story begins.

Akaashi is still deciding between Fukurodani and Suzumeoka for high school when he comes to see a practice match at Fukurodani.

The first time he sees Bokuto, Bokuto is flying through the air, suspended for a moment like a string pulled taut, and it’s a blast of ice water to his face.

 _A star_ , Akaashi thinks, idle and fleeting, and the decision is already made before he blinks.

.

Bokuto is like a child, Akaashi quickly realizes. His moods swing like pendulums over the smallest things, and even though it’s a bafflement to Akaashi, he doesn’t mind, because seeing Bokuto in the air is the best feeling in the world.

He memorizes Bokuto’s weaknesses and strengths, knows what buttons to push to bring back that smile that brims with vitality, understands silently that Bokuto is someone who speaks his mind and wears his heart on his sleeve.

Akaashi doesn’t mind. He never misses the chance to practice with Bokuto, even when Konoha offers an out.

The two of them start to spend more time together. They hang out together outside of the gym, stay back late after practice when everyone has left. Sometimes Akaashi would help Bokuto with math homework—the parts that he understands as an underclassman anyway—and Bokuto would often run to Akaashi’s classroom during lunchtime with eyes shining gold, excited for something as trivial as having lunch with a mere teammate. Akaashi doesn’t quite understand, but can’t deny that it’s sort of charming.

“You really can handle him, huh,” Konoha has multiple times said to him, a helplessly amused look on his face.

It doesn’t really matter, because through all the exhaustion and sweat and leg pain and mood swings, whenever Bokuto grins like the sunrise and says, “Akaashi! Your tosses are the best!” Akaashi honestly doesn’t mind.

.

He doesn’t know when it started.

Akaashi initially deciphers his boost in spirits whenever he sees Bokuto as the natural effect Bokuto has on people, as how his contagious child-like energy spreads over to everyone around him.

But one day, Bokuto barges into the gym, shoulders heaving, late, and the colours are suddenly a little brighter, the air a little lighter.

“Sorry!” Bokuto says. “I was on time but then I ran into—I saw a dog on the road, and I just can’t, you know, when you see a dog—it was the _cutest_ thing!”

Everyone laughs, even their managers, and the coach tells him to hurry up and change with a fond smile. When Bokuto comes back out in his gym clothes, he brightens up at the sight of Akaashi and trots up to him. It reminds Akaashi endearingly of a baby duck.

“I’ll show you pictures of the puppy after practice, Akaashi,” Bokuto promises. “I took them so you can see, she’s adorable!”

Akaashi feels a tingle from the tip of his fingers all the way down to his toes.

 _Huh_ , he thinks to himself.

Akaashi is smart. He can keep a cool composure and rationalize confounding things in a split second. _Something is different with this feeling,_ he realizes, just as there is something more in the boost of happiness that he gets whenever Bokuto walks into the room. It’s not because of Bokuto’s natural effect on people. There is that little flutter in Akaashi’s chest, that flip of his stomach, that slight hitch of breath that gives the mask of platonic affection away.

Akaashi’s eyes go wide when it dawns on him.

“Oh, crap,” he blurts out.

Bokuto looks at him with a sad little pout. “Why? I thought you like dogs.”

.

Akaashi has never had a crush on a boy before.

To be fair, he’s only had one other crush in his sixteen years of life. She was sweet and cheerful and witty. Akaashi liked her for two years of elementary school and went out with her on innocent childish dates for one.

Having a crush on a boy is new. Having a crush on _Bokuto_ of all people is something else.

It’s mostly because Bokuto doesn’t seem to have much room in his mind for anything other than volleyball. Besides academia and spending time with his friends and family, Akaashi doesn’t think that he’s interested in anything else, much less romance. _This crush is just doomed from the start_ , Akaashi reasons as he’s walking down the school halls, ready to file it away in the back of his mind reserved for silly notions.

Then he catches sight of Bokuto talking to a girl outside, under a tree and over grass. The girl is fidgety, a little nervous and embarrassed as she says something unintelligible. Bokuto scratches his head and gives her a warm smile.

Akaashi’s brain goes _ugh_.

Bokuto’s eyes look up to meet his, and they brighten almost blindingly. Akaashi freezes and watches, his heartbeat quickening, as Bokuto mumbles something hastily to the girl. After they exchange awkward smiles, Bokuto jogs over to where he is.

“Bokuto-san.”

“Hey hey hey, Akaashi!” he says. “What are you doing? I thought you had cleaning duties today.”

“I went for a break,” Akaashi says, and can’t help himself. “Who was that?”

“Oh, right,” Bokuto says, averting his eyes. “She’s just someone in my year. She said she liked me, but—well, you know, nice girl, but I don’t have time for all that. So I said I can’t return her feelings.”

“Ah.” And Akaashi’s stomach does two consecutive things: it flies up from the ugly, pleasant relief he gets from the rejection, and immediately sinks down from the reminder that Bokuto has no time for romance—and certainly not with a male teammate.

Bokuto looks slightly uncomfortable. “So!” he says with purpose. “I, uh, I can walk you back to your classroom? Oh, and did you see that crazy dig Erik Shoji did in the match on TV yesterday? It was awesome! The way the ball makes it all the way over the net was…”

As Bokuto rambles on, Akaashi silences his feelings and puts them behind him. It’s what he does best.

.

Although it does get increasingly harder everyday to ignore it.

It’s not only when Bokuto is in the air anymore that Akaashi is enamoured with him. The overwhelming surges of affection wash over him in the most ordinary moments. It happens when Bokuto is staring concentratedly at his math homework with all the intensity and half the brainpower that he reserves for practice. It happens on bus rides, when Bokuto nods off to sleep and rests his head on Akaashi’s shoulder, the evening sunlight spanning the ground in its benign gold. It happens when Bokuto picks up little kids after teaching them volleyball, and lets them ruffle his hair until it drops naturally and all there is is laughter.

Mortifyingly, it also happens when Bokuto takes off his shirt in the changing room and Akaashi has to look away, a flush rising to his cheeks. But that’s to be expected.

“Am I a masochist,” Akaashi wonders to himself.

“With all the practice that you do with Bokuto,” Konoha says, patting him sympathetically on the back, “I think you might be.”

.

Akaashi has intentionally shied away from having Bokuto over for a sleepover, for obvious reasons, but Bokuto has been bombarding him with, “I’ve never had a sleepover with you, Akaashi!” and “I’ve done it with all my friends except you!” and, like a kicked puppy, “Do you not want me over?” So Akaashi relents, albeit reluctantly.

Bokuto comes over and makes himself at home. Akaashi’s parents keep shooting him looks of amusement as Bokuto rambles on and on about everything and anything.

“You two are very different,” his mom says, the corners of her mouth struggling to contain a smile.

“We _are_ ,” Bokuto says, draping an arm across Akaashi. “We’re like day and night. Like yin and yang. Like the sun and stars!” 

“Well,” his dad says.

After dinner, they help his parents clean up, wash the dishes, put away the utensils, and when Akaashi’s parents start gushing over how sweet and adorable Bokuto is, Akaashi comes up with a blatant excuse for both of them to say goodnight and come up to Akaashi’s room.

“I didn’t know that the sun is a star,” Bokuto says as they put on a movie to watch. “Your dad’s so smart! They don’t teach you this stuff in school.”

“Well,” Akaashi says. “They do. You might’ve slept through it.”

The movie is all action: guns flying past people’s ears, murderous car chases down busy streets, the main muscular guy getting together with the pretty lady. Bokuto is pumped all the way through the movie and even after the end credits roll.

Akaashi lays out the futon on the floor afterwards and tells Bokuto to take the bed. Unsurprisingly, Bokuto doesn’t let up, and they get into a ridiculously formal argument about whether the host or the guest should be the one to give the other person comfort.

It ends up with them both lying flat on their backs on the bed, a ceremonially awkward distance away from each other.

Bokuto is on the side next to the window. A single huge blanket is draped over them. _This is such an uncomfortable position,_ Akaashi thinks, feeling like his throat is tightening up, the tension in the air so palpable he can almost taste it.

Bokuto clears his throat and says, “Do you think I put too much gel in my hair?”

“What?” Akaashi says. “I—um, I don’t think so.”

Bokuto hums ponderously and turns to look at him. “I think my hair doesn’t look good when it’s down. It doesn’t look as cool. But I don’t know if putting too much gel in my hair is really—is really nice or not.”

Akaashi feels a bubble of warm laughter rise from his chest and smiles. “I think you look great with your hair down, Bokuto-san.” 

Akaashi always prided himself on being able to know exactly what Bokuto is thinking, but the way Bokuto is staring at him right now is nearly unreadable. His eyes are wide and something is flashing across them. He gazes at Akaashi—gentle and surprised and a little bit of something else that Akaashi can’t pinpoint—for a long time before he abruptly turns to the other side.

Akaashi is about to open his mouth to comment on it when Bokuto leaps up and exclaims, “It’s snowing!”

Outside the window, snow is falling, directionless and soft. It kisses the trees and houses and ground tender, and then covers them up snug in white. Akaashi stops breathing for a moment as he watches it lazily drift against the window and illuminate the darkness, as he watches Bokuto press his palms against the glass and his eyes sparkle like stars when he turns back to say, _It’s snowing._

Akaashi thought falling in love would be like a storm. At least, that’s how he has known it to be in the books and movies—that it is a whirlwind of emotions, like stepping through fire that burns at your feet, like wild devotion that drives you mad, like passion so deep and so strong that it eats away at you and leaves you with nothing but a mass of desire.

“Don’t you like it, Akaashi?” Bokuto says, looking out the window at the snow that falls like confetti around them. “It’s so beautiful.”

And it’s at this moment that Akaashi realizes that falling in love is not like a storm, at least for him. It is quiet, as in the morning hours before the city wakes. Falling in love is like crawling under a blanket and tucking it all around you and redefining what the parameters of your world is going to be. It is saying, _you_ and _you_ and _you_ , with every breath, while the blanket settles heavily all around you and the ceiling opens up to a whole other world, vast under the night sky.

“I love it,” Akaashi says, almost a confession. And as Bokuto turns around and beams at him, falling in love is also drowning.

.

.

.

.

Maybe this is how the story begins.

One of the first years says, “I am Akaashi Keiji, from Mori middle school. I played setter. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” and Bokuto is sold.

.

Bokuto initially likes Akaashi because he’s a setter. Then he likes Akaashi because Akaashi is the only one who would set for him whenever he wants to practice spiking. Then he likes Akaashi because, obvious or not, Akaashi always manages to put him in a good mood.

It’s funny how he gets so quickly and strongly attached to this boy even though he’s a year younger, even though there are four other second years on the team that Bokuto has spent twelve whole months playing with.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, breaking him out the reverie. “Did you want to stay late for practice again today?”

Bokuto blinks and says, “Of course! You know me!”

The absurdity of it barely registers in his mind, if he can even call it that. He doesn’t have this strong of a friendship with Konoha, or Komi, or Washio, or Sarukui, who are all teammates his age. He’s been spending most of his time with Akaashi—Akaashi, who is calm and quiet and stoic and smart, who has a face so pretty that he can kiss it for days, who can say all the right things at all the right times and make Bokuto feel like he’s on top of the world. They understand each other nonverbally, and frankly, Bokuto doesn’t want to stop being around him.

 _Wait,_ Bokuto backtracks, _who has a face what?_

.

Bokuto is not very good at handling and acknowledging his emotions. He wishes he can be better, but when it comes to volleyball, his whole team doesn’t seem to mind.

When it comes to other private matters though, Bokuto doesn’t know who to consult.

Well, he always consults Akaashi, but recently Akaashi is the person that has been troubling Bokuto, so that leaves him with no one that he trusts enough to confide all these new and strange emotions that he doesn’t quite understand to.

 _Ah, whatever_. He shrugs it off, as it is his nature. _No use to dwell on it, really. Task focus._

.

“I love it.”

Bokuto turns around from the window to give Akaashi the happiest smile he’s given, because he’s one of the happiest he’s ever been. The snowflakes are coming down outside in petals, whirling through the city air before they settle into layers. The bedroom is covered in patches of moonlight, here and there, here and there, here. The pale light dances and stretches over Akaashi’s face, who is sitting up and smiling back at him—a smile like glass breaking, like sirens singing, and something unlocks in Bokuto’s chest as impulse overtakes him.

He tackles Akaashi into a hug.

“Gah!” Akaashi yelps, his back hitting the mattress.

“I wanna cuddle, Akaashi!” Bokuto says, no inhibitions and all joy. “Can we cuddle and sleep?”

At this point, Bokuto knows Akaashi well enough to know that as long as it’s possible and plausible, Akaashi will go along with whatever Bokuto wants to do. It’s sort of unfair maybe, that he asks this, already knowing the answer.

Through the almost darkness, Bokuto can see the tip of Akaashi’s ears go pink. But, predictably, he says, “…Okay.”

They lie there like that, limbs tangled and facing each other and Bokuto’s arms are around Akaashi, who is a bit thinner and shorter, hands on his back. He can feel that Akaashi is tense, but after a while he relaxes, muscles easing; his breaths are coming out more even. Bokuto breathes in and smells fresh linen and the shampoo from Akaashi’s hair.

There are things people do sometimes, actions that you take based solely on impulse without stopping for a fraction to think, and this is essentially the foundation for most of what Bokuto does. _I wonder what it’s like,_ is all he thinks as he reaches his fingers out and tentatively brushes through Akaashi’s hair.

Akaashi stills in his arms, but doesn’t pull away. “Bokuto-san?” he says, his voice small.

“Your hair is soft like the pillow is soft,” Bokuto murmurs.

A chuckle rumbles quietly out of Akaashi, and Bokuto drowns in the sound. He doesn’t quite do this with other boys, not really; not even when he’s tired and sad and desperate for contact. But Akaashi’s not like other boys, with his words like adulthood and his eyes ocean-blue. The thought lingers on Bokuto’s mind as his fingers absentmindedly thread through the locks, faintly and quietly, until they both drift to sleep.

.

It’s too much brainpower for him.

“There are two types of cells,” Akaashi says, and then Bokuto hears him say what sounds like, “something something prokaryote something something protozoa, you know, like the amoeba something something something tissues and debris et cetera.”

“Whoa,” Bokuto says. “Just because I have a brain doesn’t mean it works, Akaashi. Can you explain it in volleyball language maybe?”

“…You want me to explain biology in volleyball language,” Akaashi says.

“Pleaseeee,” Bokuto says. “I don’t want to fail!”

Akaashi sighs. “One minute,” he says obligingly, and then picks up the pencil to scribble some diagrams and words onto the notebook.

Bokuto watches him, feeling slightly guilty that Akaashi, who has only brushed up on this subject superficially in his class, is helping him prepare for exams. But Bokuto really can’t grasp the concepts around his head. When it comes to volleyball, it all has to do with firm stances and instinct, and nothing to do with thinking or over-thinking. It’s all movement and how your body reacts to everyone else’s, how it all comes together and all everyone thinks at the end of the day is just _one more game, I want to play one more game_. He wishes it were that simple when it comes to studying.

Or when it comes to feelings, for that matter. All the bits and pieces of everything that has to do with Akaashi has been slowly coming together, like water to a boil, like parts of a puzzle. He just needs one more piece to complete it, to understand what the hell he’s been feeling for pretty much the past year and pinpoint exactly what all the butterflies in his stomach are doing.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, waving a hand in front of him. “Are you listening?”

“No,” Bokuto whimpers.

Akaashi smiles patiently, because he’s sweet like that, and as he starts to say something, Konoha barges into the room and wraps an arm around him.

“All this _studying_ , you two,” Konoha says cheerfully, ruffling Akaashi’s hair. “Let’s take a break and go to karaoke tonight!”

Something flares up inside Bokuto’s chest as he stares at them—Konoha’s hand on Akaashi’s shoulder, his fingers through Akaashi’s hair, their bodies too close and too suffocating. Bokuto feels an itch to pry them away. All he feels is heat, is red; frustration and inexplicable jealousy.

And Bokuto will always remember this moment, because that’s when the final piece of the puzzle clicks in.

“Oh, crap,” he says.

.

Bokuto can’t tell Akaashi _this_.

Not only does it seem like Akaashi is not interested in anyone romantically, it doesn’t seem at all possible that of all people, he would want to date Bokuto. Akaashi is pretty, smart, kind, hard-working, and the notion that anyone would not want to be with him is completely mind-boggling. There isn’t any point in confessing.

“What are you going to do after high school?”

They are sitting in a circle on the grass on school grounds—Konoha, Komi, Akaashi, and Bokuto—lunch boxes in all of their hands.

“I want to be an editor at a literary magazine,” Akaashi says. “You?”

“I’ll probably do something related to pharmacy,” Konoha says, swallowing his food. “Not sure. Bokuto?”

Bokuto doesn’t even need to think about it as he says, with utmost confidence, “I’m gonna go pro! I wanna be at the top, the best ace!”

“Ah, yes,” Komi says, “why am I not surprised,” and they all laugh.

Bokuto is sure that he can go forward. He loves volleyball like it’s his breath, his lifeline. If he’s being perfectly honest, in the last two years of high school, there have only been two main sources of his happiness. One of them is volleyball, of course, and the other one—well, ever since he realized what it is, he has kept it in a box in the corner of his mind, withering in the dark for fear of change.

As they continue eating, Bokuto turns over to Akaashi, seeking some kind of opinion, like _do you think I can make it,_ or _would you want to_ _support me_ , the words hanging invisible in the air.

Akaashi catches his eyes and immediately understands.

“I’m happy to hear that, Bokuto-san,” he says, smiling like dawn. “I love watching you play.”

Bokuto was ready to keep his feelings under dark, stored away in the recesses of his mind. But five words from Akaashi, and Bokuto finds his resolution turn into I’ll do anything for you, just say the word, I’ll play for you as long as you want to see me, until the skin on my fingers wear off layer after layer, until my legs crumble and bleed into sand, until the whole world is against me, and even then I’ll keep playing if you ask me to, because it’s for you. Just for you. It’s all for you.

.

.

.

The day after nationals ended, Bokuto calls Akaashi and says, “Come with me to the beach!”

“Why,” Akaashi complains.

They end up on the train, heading for almost two hours to Bokuto’s favourite spot on a nearby beach. The ride there is smooth, with Bokuto ranting on about how different of a player he’s going to be when he goes pro. Akaashi lets him talk, because he knows that despite the bubbly demeanour, Bokuto is disappointed that they didn’t win.

Once there, they walk along the beach barefoot. It’s really a beautiful place: a swathe of golden sand framed by granite cliffs, surrounded by the steady crashing of waves against shore. They walk for a long time; seemingly endless, before they reach a cliff and Bokuto excitedly says, _let’s get up there!_ and so they go.

“I can see why you like this beach,” Akaashi says once they’re at the top of the cliff. There are shouts and laughter of the swimmers beneath them, the chirping of birds above them through the afternoon sun. _It’s like heaven,_ he thinks fondly.

“Right?” Bokuto grins. “You’re the first friend I’ve ever shown this place to. Now take off your clothes.”

“What?” Akaashi says, heat instantly rising up to his cheeks as Bokuto starts unbuttoning his own shirt.

“We’re going for a swim!”

“We—?” Akaashi halts, panicking. They’re at the _top of a cliff_.

He frantically peers down. Granted, it’s not a very high cliff, and there are people below, children and parents, who have spotted them and are now nauseatingly urging them to join them. “You don’t mean—”

“Come on, Akaashi!” Bokuto has now discarded of his shirt, and are pulling down his pants so that he’s left in nothing but a pair of boxers ( _don’t stare don’t stare don’t stare_ ). He looks like he’s about to laugh at the expression on Akaashi’s face. “I’ve done this before. We’re not gonna die. It’s really fun! Come, strip!”

“No.” Akaashi repeatedly shakes his head. “God, no. What if there are rocks down there?”

“ _Are there rocks down there_?” Bokuto yells to the swimmers below.

“ _Nope_!” one of them shouts back.

“See,” Bokuto says, extending his arms with the most nonchalant grin. “We can even jump together, if you want.”

“But,” Akaashi protests.

“Do you love me?” Bokuto demands.

Akaashi’s mind goes completely blank.

“Er,” he says.

Bokuto’s eyes immediately widen, his face flushing red. “I-I mean no, I meant to say,” he stammers, his words tumbling and tripping over each other, his hands fumbling with his boxers clumsily. He’s looking anywhere but at Akaashi. “I meant to say, do you trust me, _trust_ , not—not _do you love me_ , oh God. _Trust!_ Shit, Akaashi, I’m so sorry!”

And then Bokuto jumps off the cliff.

.

He hits the water with a huge _splash!_ There are faint sounds of children’s laughter when he’s submerged underwater, the salt of it burning his nose and the cold enveloping him for a brief moment before he rises up to the surface.

Do you love me, he had asked.

_What was I thinking?_

Part of him thinks that maybe he can be underwater for the rest of his life and never come back up, because that’s probably the lesser of two evils compared to what he’s just done. And part of him—a very small, hopeful part—is glad that he did it, that he got it off his chest, that he had the balls to do it even though it was completely by accident.

Bokuto gasps for air as he resurfaces.

Do you love me, he had asked.

“I’m an _idiot_ ,” he says aloud.

“You are,” comes Akaashi’s voice behind him.

Bokuto whips around so fast the water sprays almost into his eyes. Akaashi is there, his chest bare and submerged to his shoulders in the ocean. His hair is wet, strands stuck to his face, and droplets rain down his body in rivulets.

He looks deeply annoyed.

“You,” Bokuto says, because he doesn’t know what else is appropriate to say, “you jumped.”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, his voice level but simmering with what Bokuto thinks is repressed anger, “you can’t just say that and then _yeet yourself off a cliff!_ ”

“I—I made a mistake,” he says, looking off nervously to the side. “It was a slip of the tongue, you know, because of nationals yesterday, and I’m graduating, and everything is just—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi repeats, with unfamiliar urgency. He’s swimming closer to Bokuto now, so that they are only a forearm’s length away, and through the waves moving around them Bokuto can see that Akaashi’s face is turning a funny colour. “I do.”

Bokuto blinks.

“To your question earlier,” Akaashi says, “I do.”

“Oh,” Bokuto says. “Yes. I mean. It makes sense since we’re setter and hitter, and of course there has to be trust there, right—”

Akaashi makes a noise that is sort of a laugh and sort of a groan and then, in one swift motion and without any warning, presses his lips against Bokuto’s.

The kiss is sloppy and wet and there’s too much breath in there, so it’s impossible for Bokuto to describe why this is so good, why the incoherence and inexperience of both of them can result in something so addicting. He vaguely registers someone say, _Aw you two!_ and there is applause all around them, but he doesn’t care about anything right now besides the slide of their mouths and the awkward, foreign way Akaashi’s hand is on his cheek. Something is connecting that wasn’t connected before, like fog clearing out for cartographic alignment. A different kind of gravity.

So it’s unsurprising that when they break apart, Bokuto’s stomach drops.

“I… If _that’s_ what you mean by trust,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi gives him a look. His cheeks are pink and his mouth is slightly red, but the lines of his face is all determination. “I won’t go around kissing everyone in our team,” he says, but lightly and with no real scorn.

“Hm,” Bokuto says, but he’s smiling. “I wouldn’t like that.”

“Neither would I,” Akaashi says, moving towards him. And this time, Bokuto magnetizes into the kiss.

 _He’s here,_ they think. _He’s all here,_ neck and heart and foibles and all. They relish in the sensation of arms over arms, the cool water tickling their skin, the wind’s fingers brushing by and the sunlight drenching them in the soft glow of near autumn. It doesn’t matter that people are watching. It doesn’t matter that they can’t feel the bottom of the ocean, can’t see what lies ahead of them, because right here and now they are happy, protagonists of the world and all. No one will ever believe in this moment as much as they do, in the time-stopping feel of the way they move against each other, warm body to warm body.

And in three years when they look back on it, or in ten years when he remembers it, this moment, like water under bedrock, always stays alive in the foliage of their memories, distant as a good dream.

.


	2. Chapter 2

When they come back to Fukurodani and tell everyone in their team, Konoha just says, “Well, _finally_ ,” and everyone laughs in agreement.

“How did you know?” Akaashi asks, uncertain.

“Have you ever seen those movies,” Konoha explains, smirking, “where the two main characters are so obviously in love with each other, but take too long to get together, and all you wanna do is smash their heads against the wall because _they’re so_ _stupid_?”

“That’s… a bit hurtful,” Akaashi says.

“Well that’s what it’s like for all of us with you two,” Komi says. “Konoha even had to try to make Bokuto jealous at some point. It was weird, man.”

.

Akaashi tries not to cry at the graduation ceremony.

It’s a bizarre feeling to see Bokuto and Konoha and Washio and all his other third-year teammates receive their diploma, their grins wide and eyes teary and stance so proud it makes him want to weep. It doesn’t help that cherry blossoms are blooming outside into its season, their petals sprinkling like confetti onto the end of a childhood journey, in a sense.

Onstage, Bokuto spots him and winks, holding his diploma up high. Akaashi smiles.

Once the ceremony is over, the six of them shuffle out into the cool afternoon, and without a word to each other make their way unamimously to the gym.

“I guess we’ll let the first years rest,” Sarukui says.

“It’s all the graduates and our soon-to-be captain!” Bokuto yips. His spirits have not at all dampened, Akaashi notes with affection and strange pride. “Come on, we can play our last game together. Three-on-three.”

“Are you going to be okay without us next year?” Konoha asks, looking more brotherly than Akaashi has ever seen him look.

“More than okay,” Akaashi lies. “I think I’ll be brilliant.”

Konoha laughs. “How ruthless.”

“Come on guys, pick up the pace!” Bokuto says, almost jumping with excitement ahead of them. “It’s our final practice together. Our last hurrah!”

“Don’t say that,” Komi objects. “We’ll still see each other, won’t we? Grown-ups can still be friends. I mean, I won’t be that far away from all of you.”

“Yeah, but this is different,” Bokuto says. His voice shifts to one of rare gravity, but his smile is unwavering. “Our last hurrah. Come on.”

Goodbyes are awful, Akaashi thinks, especially when it blends into incipient adulthood. In the gym it’ll smell of boys and sweat and the leather of volleyball, and despite how gross that is, it’s been the smell of a second home to all of them. And in a few hours it’ll come to an end, in a way.

 _But that’s okay_ , Akaashi thinks fondly. Somewhere along the way they have grown into one another, merged together into a team. And even if they didn’t become any year’s national champions, they can all just share this invincible feeling—a sort of secret amongst six good friends—until they’re impossibly old and the three years they spend in Fukurodani will just be a story of yesteryear, a short charm in time. And that will be enough.

.

Bokuto likes to come and visit Akaashi at Fukurodani.

It’s not so much because he gets the chance to visit his old high school again, but it’s more that he loves to see Akaashi be a captain. He would come a bit earlier, half an hour or so before practice is supposed to end, and watch Akaashi lead the new team. Akaashi does it in a quiet way: all guidance and patience and kindness that all the underclassmen receive with utmost respect. It’s endearing.

“You don’t have to wait that long for me every time, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, once they make their way out of school grounds.

Bokuto caresses Akaashi’s hair and gives him a peck on the cheek. “I just love watching you be all leadershipy,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “Ramen or yakiniku?”

“Yakiniku,” Akaashi chooses, expressionless but blushing. “There’s a good restaurant near here that we can go to. How’s playing for the association?”

“It’s been fun!” Bokuto says. “Your tosses are still the best, Akaashi, but it’s really fun!”

A smile tugs at the corners of Akaashi’s mouth. “Are you nervous about try-outs?”

Bokuto swallows. _Of course there’s no hiding it with Akaashi._

“Well,” he says, fidgeting. “Yes. MSBY Black Jackals is the top tier of Division 1, right, so—so I’m kinda worried.”

Although _worried_ would be somewhat of an understatement. He has always been an ace that was coddled by the rest of the team, and even though he has told them that it’s time he becomes just “a normal ace” after they graduate, it’s still an arduous transition. He has to be better at handling his emotions, but every time he thinks about joining a team as strong as MSBY Black Jackals, something inside his stomach churns and churns and churns and churns and doesn’t stop and all he wants to do is—

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. Bokuto turns to see him smiling. “My mom once told me that whenever you feel so anxious you can’t help it, just take a deep breath and look up at the sky. See?”

Bokuto follows Akaashi’s fingers up to where he’s pointing.

It’s all blue.

It’s shades and shades of blue, stretching across the infinite expanse.

One breath after another, he watches the clouds float across the sky with a spellbound gaze, its cotton candy whirls moving him to calm. All his worries are small: reduced to an infinitesimal star, invisible in daylight.

“See,” Akaashi says, kindness in his voice. Everything blue is still. “You can make it. You’ll be okay.”

.

Bokuto is looking at Akaashi with intense resolution.

They are at Bokuto’s apartment on a warm June night, watching the main character make a fool of himself on TV, when Bokuto suddenly straightens up and turns to stare at Akaashi with rare solemnity.

Akaashi has never seen an expression quite like this before. Naturally, he internally freaks out and deduces that A) Bokuto is about to keel over and die, and this is his ill-suited decision to explain everything here and now; B) Bokuto is about to break up with him because he’s dull and uninteresting and doesn’t get excited about riding all the rollercoasters at the amusement park; and C) Bokuto has been keeping a terrible secret—like maybe he has committed murder, and he needs Akaashi’s help to get rid of the evidence once and for all.

“Are you dying?” Akaashi asks.

“No,” Bokuto says. “What?”

“Are you going to break up with me?”

“ _What_? No! What are you talking about?”

Akaashi inhales deeply. “Have you killed someone, Bokuto-san?”

“ _Hang on a sec_ ,” Bokuto says, holding his hand up. “How did you even come to this conclusion? I haven’t said anything!”

Akaashi blinks. “You looked so serious, I thought… What’s this about then?”

Bokuto’s cheeks colour. His leg is starting to tap agitatedly on the floor.

“Akaashi,” he says, looking like it’s mustering up all his courage to do this. “Can—can I call you by your first name?”

Akaashi blinks again.

And then he starts to laugh. Somewhere in his consciousness, he figures that this is a somewhat inappropriate response to such a sweet request. But he can’t help the mirth that flows out of him in fits, the joy and love that blooms in him again like that time at sea.

“Koutarou,” he says, rolling the sound in his mouth, turning the consonants hungrily for the first time.

Bokuto freezes and stares at him, wide-eyed, pupils dilated. Akaashi inches closer to him until their noses touch. “Why was this a big deal? You didn’t have to ask.”

Bokuto eagerly opens his mouth and whispers, “ _Keiji_ ,” but before he can reach the last letter Akaashi’s lips are already on his.

.

Bokuto is there at Akaashi’s graduation.

When he receives his diploma, Akaashi sees the mass of spiky white-grey hair in the crowd and a pair of arms waving enthusiastically. He smiles, knowing that the soft _click_ he faintly hears is the photograph Bokuto is taking of him.

As they exit through the Fukurodani entrance later that day, Akaashi looks back at the school building, its structure tall and old and familiar and surrounded with petals of memories, and leaves it behind him.

.

.

They move in together.

Kuroo, dragging Kenma along, and Konoha are there to help. They unpack the boxes, clean the floors, carry in the furniture, and at the end of it Kuroo walks out onto the balcony and puts his hands on his hips, soaking in the breeze. “It’s a nice flat,” he says, turning back at them, a knowing smirk plastered on his face. “You have all the privacy you need here to have some _fun_.”

Akaashi coughs. 

“Hell yeah!” Bokuto throws his arms out wide, almost hitting Kenma in the face. “This is the best day ever!”

“You say that about most days,” Akaashi points out.

“Because most days are with _you_ ,” Bokuto says bluntly. He sees Akaashi’s face go red—earning wicked grins from Kuroo and Konoha—and wonders how it can be possible to love someone this much. To see them there in front of you, happy and alive on the most ordinary days, to know that you are measuring out your life together in the hard times and good. Bokuto looks at the first boy he ever loved, the first boy he ever loved and he would stake his life on them and be done with the rest.

He leans over and kisses Akaashi—it’s delightful, magical, perfect, just like the first time and every time after.

“Get a room,” Kuroo says, ironically.

.

In the second week of living together, Akaashi wakes up to find Bokuto not beside him. _Oh right,_ he remembers through the haze of sleep, _it’s early morning practice today._ Much as he’d like to deny it, Akaashi hates waking up alone; it puts him in a sour mood for the entire morning.

He sluggishly drags himself out of bed and reaches out for his glasses, only to find a post-it note slapped onto the wooden bedside table.

 _HELLO LOVE OF MY LIFE,_ it reads. _I MADE BREKFAST FOR U IN THE KICHEN._

“Goodness,” says Akaashi.

Later, when Bokuto comes home, Akaashi decides to tease him about it. “This is very sweet, Koutarou,” he says warmly, “but I don’t think I can ever love a man who goes through life with this many spelling mistakes.”

Bokuto huffs a laugh and boops Akaashi on the nose. “I’m sure I’ve read more words than you have.”

“Uh,” Akaashi says. “No?” 

“They say a picture is worth a thousand words,” Bokuto elaborates, making his way to the washroom. “I’ve probably seen a thousand more pictures than you have, Keiji. Math is not my strong suit, but that’s a lot more words.”

“Math is not your strong suit,” Akaashi agrees. “Neither is logic, it seems.” 

The next day, Bokuto wakes up to find a post-it note plastered on his own forehead.

 _Good morning,_ the letters on it is sprawled out in neat handwriting. _I made breakfast in the kitchen. Please remember to take out the trash. I love you._

And that’s how their life unfurls in the next days, in the next weeks, months, years—with small papers of different colours glued onto every possible corner of their apartment. They save all of it: pieces of notes stored preciously in a box under Akaashi’s work desk. The ones that are not there are either stacked onto the fridge, in Akaashi’s wallet, or inside the pocket of Bokuto’s gym bag; the ones that only have written on them three simple words _._

.

The sixth time they get into a fight, Tokyo is boiling hot.

“Keijiiiiii,” Bokuto whines. “The TV isn’t working. I’m booored. Can you help me?”

“I’m trying to read through this author’s use of a paradox,” Akaashi says, pushing up his newly bought glasses. “It doesn’t make any sense. And I have a deadline.”

“Maybe I should sleep,” Bokuto says, the boredom and agitation pouring out of him in fidgets, “but I already drank too much coffee. So I’m trying to watch TV, but it isn’t working.”

“I’ll help with that later, Koutarou,” Akaashi says curtly.

Bokuto knows that it’s Akaashi’s _I’m-tired-and-impatient_ voice, so he tries to be helpful. “What’s this paradox?”

“It’s called Zeno’s dichotomy paradox,” Akaashi explains. “So suppose this girl wants to walk to the end of a path. Before she can get there she has to be halfway there, and before she’s halfway there she has to be a quarter-way there, and one-eighth, and so on and so forth. This means she’d have to complete an infinite number of tasks, which Zeno deems an impossibility. The philosophical problem is there, but this author’s trying to use it as some kind of poetic metaphor and _it doesn’t make any sense_.”

“Whoa,” Bokuto says, slightly dizzy. “I think listening to that is helping me with my sleeping problem.”

“Well that’s just insensitive,” Akaashi snaps.

Bokuto balks. “Wait, I didn’t mean that to be mean, it was kind of a joke—”

“If you find this too _boring_ , maybe you should just go and practice spiking with Miya Atsumu instead.”

Bokuto flinches, taking offence. The TV isn’t working, he was trying to sleep, he was trying to be supportive, he was trying to lighten the mood, and Akaashi got defensively sensitive despite all that. The boiling heat of the summer day is not helping either—its air moist, sultry, and far from fresh, like someone is constantly breathing heavily down on him in the most unpleasant way. It’s suffocating and hot hot _hot_.

“Fine!” Bokuto says, grabbing his bag and keys and storming out the apartment. “Maybe I will!”

He is still very angry and annoyed when he slams the door shut, but something is different this time.

As Bokuto walks towards the elevator, he knows that in just one hour when he comes back home, they will fume, still bitter, around each other until it’s time to make dinner. Then he will say, _I’m sorry, I should have realized you were stressed,_ and Akaashi will say, _I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that,_ and Bokuto will say, _Your tosses are still the best, you know._ And then they will cook together, the anger disappearing, and later that night when they climb in bed with each other all of this will just be another petty, childish fight. Bokuto knows that. He also knows that Akaashi knows that. They have fallen into a well of comfort in their relationship; have fallen into step, into rhythm, and at the end of the day none of their hostility matters.

That is why—even before the elevator hits the ground floor—Bokuto calls Kuroo and says with absolute certainty, “I think I’m going to marry him.”

.

On Akaashi’s 21st birthday, Bokuto makes the worst cake they have ever tasted.

Their friends are there with them—those from Fukurodani, Kuroo and Kenma, Tenma Udai, and some from Akaashi’s work as a weekly shounen manga editor.

Bokuto is talking excitedly to Kuroo, unaware, when Akaashi takes the first bite of the cake and immediately wants to gag. _Is_ this _what Bokuto spent five hours of the day slaving over?_

He desperately glances across the table at Konoha, who looks ready to throw himself out the window at the taste. Akaashi squints at him and purses his lips: _Please be nice to him, Konoha-san._

Konoha catches the signal and sighs, his eyes rolling back: _I can’t believe I still have to deal with this._

“Bokutoooo,” he yips. “The cake tastes good! But we’re really very full. Maybe you should save this for the two of you later?”

“Awwww, really?” Bokuto says, but his face is glowing from the compliment. “Are you guys sure you don’t want more?”

Akaashi holds his gaze steady at the rest of his old Fukurodani teammates, who have fortunately not taken a slice yet. He shakes his head once: _It tastes like death._

“Positive,” Komi chimes in. “Very sure.”

“If you say so,” Bokuto says, completely oblivious, and winks at Akaashi. “This means more for you and me later, hey, Keiji?”

“Hooray,” Akaashi deadpans.

The moon is high in the sky after everyone has left. They shuffle out into the cold December night, scarves around their throats, and through their apartment window Akaashi watches them leave footprints on the snow, voices high and full of life.

Bokuto comes and hugs him from behind. “Did you have fun?” he says.

“I did.” Akaashi leans back, resting his head on Bokuto’s shoulder. They catch each other’s eyes and smile. “Thank you, Koutarou.”

Bokuto grins hard and kisses him on the ear. Akaashi laughs, ticklish, and swats him away.

“I’m going to clean up,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi stares at Bokuto’s retreating back, at the slow tension in his shoulders as he bends down to pick up the empty beer cans. For the past few months, Akaashi has noticed that there is a slight hesitation whenever Bokuto talks to him, as if he’s been looking for the right time to tell Akaashi something dreadfully important. It reminds him of the time Bokuto asked to get to first name basis—only more subtle this time, and less intense.

Bokuto has never come close to approaching the subject though, and Akaashi never wants to pry, in the off chance that he’s wrong about a mere hunch.

“Hey hey hey, Keiji, look!” Bokuto calls, breaking him out of it.

Akaashi looks up, and is almost shocked to see Bokuto holding a huge white teddy bear, its palms and foot and ears dyed black, with a red heart sewn in the middle.

“You already gave me a watch,” Akaashi says, mouth open.

“This is your last birthday present,” Bokuto says cheerily and skips towards him. “With an extra something special.”

Akaashi takes the bear in his hands. On top of the heart, there is a post-it note.

 _I LOVE YOU BEARY MUCH AKAASHI KEIJI,_ it reads.

“You’re silly,” Akaashi says, his own heart ready to burst. The sight of Bokuto beaming at him, brilliant and handsome and almost blinding, is imprinted on Akaashi’s mind later that night when he texts Kuroo: _I need your help._

.

“Are you sure you’re okay with the price?” Kuroo asks.

It’s two days after Akaashi’s birthday. He and Kuroo are standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green.

“Yes,” Akaashi says, content. “It’s worth it.”

“I don’t think Bokuto needed something _that_ extravagant,” Kuroo says, shrugging. He gives Akaashi a look that is half disbelieving and half fond; and no matter how devillish and loud and incongruous he is—especially around Bokuto—Akaashi is grateful to have a friend like Kuroo around.

“Maybe not, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi says. “But that’s okay. As long as he likes it.”

“Jeez. You both spoil each other rotten.”

Akaashi chances a sly glance at Kuroo. “Aren’t _you_ jealous.”

“Gross,” Kuroo shudders, and they laugh.

The light turns green. People shuffle out onto the strips of white on grey, the sound of traffic bustling the city up alive. Akaashi is eager to get home and most likely see Bokuto eating the horrendous birthday cake with that stupid grin on his face. He thinks fondly that if he can live like this for the rest of his life, that if they can love each other deep enough to make a whole life out of it, then he can brave a thousand hells and never be able to make up for it.

He reaches into his pocket to call Bokuto and let him know that he’ll be home soon, but then realizes with slight panic that it’s not there. Akaashi looks around and turns back, and sees with relief that it’s only fallen on the road just a few meters away.

“Wait for me one sec,” he says to Kuroo and quickly jogs over to pick it up.

There is a sudden scream that strikes Akaashi with stomach-churning fear. And when he looks to the side and sees the oncoming car, its speed not slowing and its driver not seeing, he knows it’s already too late.

“AKAASHI!” Kuroo’s shout cuts through the air.

Akaashi used to hear that your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die, but he’s never thought that was the case, at least for him. The only things that cross his mind at that moment are _no!_ and _I’m going to leave everyone behind_ and _Koutarou_ and _I’m sorry, I just want to see you again, just one more time, even if it’s a glimpse, I need to see you again, I just want to se_

.


	3. Chapter 3

The funeral is quiet.

Konoha feels uneasy, shifting the weight of his feet from left to right, left to right, and doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He wants to cry, but it seems too insensitive to just break down right now and bawl his eyes out even if that’s all he wants to do, because Akaashi’s mom is not crying, Akaashi’s dad is not crying, Bokuto is—is nowhere to be found, and if these people are not crying then Konoha feels like he has no right to.

 _God, the air is suffocating._ He loosens his tie and looks around to see people filing in lines, huddled up in groups, talking to each other in low voices as if careful not to wake the dead. _Terrible analogy,_ Konoha instantly reprimands himself, and goes outside to breathe.

It’s a nice day today. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps. The sun is soft in the sky, covered by enough clouds to not blindingly reflecting on the snow that piles up in mounds. Konoha secretly wishes with unreasonable guilt that the day would be a little more dreary, a little more abruptly frightening. More fitting for Akaashi’s funeral.

A movement catches his eyes, and Konoha looks up.

“Bokuto,” he says.

“Hey hey,” Bokuto says, smiling. It sends a chill down Konoha’s spine at how wrong it looks. “What are you doing out here?”

“Trying to breathe,” Konoha admits. “You?”

Bokuto looks haggard, tired, but his smile is not wavering. It reminds Konoha eerily of a porcelain doll. “Just wanted to see the snow,” he says.

Konoha has only seen him three times ever since the accident. Once, when Konoha came to the mortuary, only for Bokuto to usher him out and tell him there is no need for anything else to be done. Twice, when Konoha comes to see Bokuto at his apartment to offer support, only for Bokuto to grin and tell him everything is okay and shut the door. Thrice, today.

Every time he’s seen him, Bokuto has been unnaturally lighthearted. But Konohas has known him long enough, has dealt with his moods often enough to notice a subtle wrongness, an inexplicable feeling that Bokuto doesn’t quite fit in to the natural world of things as he did before—like walking down a familiar staircase only to find that it has suddenly lost its bottom step. There is an unnerving formality in his speech, and he no longer moves in strides, or jumps, or skips, or runs; he just walks, pillars on his shoulders.

And it is here that Konoha realizes with frozen immediacy the futility of being young and standing, rooted to the ground, at one of his best friend’s funerals, except that the funeral isn’t really for Akaashi, is it. It’s not Akaashi’s anymore, because anything that is his died with him the moment he collided with the force of the oncoming car. It’s for his parents, his family, for Bokuto and his friends who are living the life he no longer has. And here Konoha is, trapped between child and man and feeling utterly incapable.

“Hey, Bokuto,” Konoha says, “are you o—”

“I’m going back inside,” Bokuto says quickly, and disappears behind the doors before Konoha can get another word in.

.

The cremation ceremony is taking a long time.

Kuroo stares at the rocks beneath his feet and tries to kick them all away from him. He and Bokuto had gone outside to wait while Akaashi’s parents are inside with the cremators. It has been more than four hours since they have gotten here, and they are still waiting for the procedure to be finished. Apparently the… bones and stuff that are left have to be put into a cremulator. Kuroo always thought it simply involved putting a body into the incinerator and letting the flames overtake you, but it’s more complicated than that. It is _all_ so much more complicated than that.

Bokuto is standing next to him, his hands in his pockets and and his gaze faraway.

“How are you holding up?” Kuroo asks, for what he feels like is the hundredth time in the past two weeks.

“Hm?” Bokuto says distractedly, and then something comes back to him and he looks at Kuroo, his eyes clearer. “Oh. Yeah, I’m good. Really, you don’t have to stay here. It’s been a long day.”

“Nonsense,” Kuroo says. “Of course I will.”

He tries not to think about it. The grief hasn’t stung him coppery yet (he realizes, distantly, analytically), but in its place is numb confusion. It’s hard to accept that Akaashi is not here anymore, is not _anywhere_ anymore. That he’s in a state of dreamless sleep forever and ever, reduced to white smoke and ashes. It was all too short.

The door creaks open and Akaashi’s mother steps out, cradling an urn in her arms as if holding an infant. Her husband follows her suit, himself carrying an identical one.

“Koutarou-kun,” she says, giving Bokuto a wailing, benevolent smile. She holds out the urn to him. “This is yours.”

Bokuto just stares at her.

“We have—we have half,” she says. “You mean so much to him, dear. We thought you should have this.”

“Kuroo,” Bokuto says, a sharply desperate note in his voice. “Kuroo?”

Kuroo is immediately beside him. “I’ll take it,” he says, receiving the urn from her. The weight of it stings his fingers raw.

Akaashi’s mother seems to understand; her eyes crinkles with unsaid empathy. “Well,” she says, touching her husband’s arm, who is fixedly staring at the ground. “We better get going. Take care, both of you.”

Kuroo watches them retreat into the distance, their figures shrinking to two indecipherable points.

_Don’t think about it._

It isn’t for another while that Bokuto speaks.

“Is it…” he says quietly. “Is it heavy?”

Kuroo moves his arms, feeling the dead weight of the urn in his hands. It is all so strange, he thinks. He almost closes up, the sorrow in him building up over time like pressure against a dam, like a cough that becomes a death rattle that becomes a silent open mouth. _It is all so strange._ But what other choice does he have?

“No,” he says honestly, and tries not to think about it. “Not really.”

.

Bokuto opens his eyes and hears the birds chirping outside, singing morning.

A wave of happiness washes over him in tides, peaceful and serene, until the haze of sleep disappears and his memories, with their fragile fingers, cover him desolate.

 _Ah,_ he thinks, reaching to his side to find the other side of the bed empty. _Right._

.

.

_Bokuto is eating the remainder of Akaashi’s birthday cake on December 7th when the phone rings._

He takes it, looks at the name, and picks up. “Hey hey hey!” he says, feigning sulk. “I hope you both are having fun without me.”

There is a silence on the other line. Bokuto is beginning to think that this is a butt dial when Kuroo’s hollowed voice finally sounds: “Hey.”

“Hello?” Bokuto says, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

There is another silence. And then, “Akaashi’s dead.”

Bokuto laughs. “Your jokes are getting worse everyday, man,” he says, licking up the rest of the whipped cream. “By the way, have you seen what Daichi sent in the group chat?”

“Bokuto,” Kuroo says. There is something urgent in his voice that isn’t right. “Akaashi’s dead.”

Bokuto blinks.

“I—I’m sorry,” Kuroo says, unusually unhinged. “We were crossing the street, and he was—he was hit by a car. The driver was asleep, the piece of shit, and he died too, just—crashed into a pole. But Akaashi’s dead. I’m sorry. I’m so sorr—I’m at the local hospital right now. Can you come?”

Bokuto’s mind draws a blank. “You’re joking?” he says.

“I’m not,” Kuroo says, voice breaking on the second word.

Bokuto hangs up.

He doesn’t remember the drive there. It’s a blur of colours; of green, yellow, red; of shapes with their edges unfocused. He remembers his hands gripping the wheels, remembers the honkings, the shouts, the screeching of tires—sounds that blend and drown him.

Bokuto remembers seeing the receptionist’s mouth moving, remembers the room number she gave him ( _504, 504, 504_ ), and then in the blink of an eye he is halting to a stop in front of Kuroo, out of breath.

Kuroo’s face is pale. “He’s there,” he points.

Bokuto stares through the glass windows into the room. Sure enough, Akaashi’s there. That’s good. Akaashi’s right there, lying on the bed with no one around him. Akaashi’s right there, his eyes closed and his mouth closed and his face a bit pale and his hair a bit red, but that’s okay, he’s there, he’s all there, he’s right there—

Bokuto feels someone grab his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“He’s an organ donor, right?” Kuroo says behind him. “They told me they’re checking something, I-I don’t really know, but they said to wait, don’t come in yet.”

“What do you mean?” Bokuto says. Akaashi’s right there. “He’s right there. Can’t I just come hold his hand? He doesn’t like to admit it, but he hates waking up alone.”

Kuroo looks like someone had just slapped him in the face.

“Bokuto,” he chokes. “Please. He’s—”

“What are you doing?” Bokuto jerks his arm away. “I just need to see him. There’s nothing wrong with that, right? I just want to see him. _Let me go see_ —”

A hand, strange and unfamiliar, is placed on his shoulder and he flinches. A man wearing a white coat is standing beside them, in front of the 504 door that is open ajar. The identification card on his breast pocket states he’s a doctor.

“It’s all right,” the man says, his voice deep and calm. “It’s all good. You can come in.”

Bokuto doesn’t spare a glance at Kuroo as he hurries into the room.

The smell of disinfectant and faint blood curl his insides funnily. Akaashi is lying on the hospital bed, with a white cloth draped over his body, reaching up to his shoulders. His face is visible, peaceful, and he still looks so beautiful that nothing seems out of place. Everything looks fine. _That’s good_ , Bokuto thinks. _That’s good._

But as he rushes over closer, his hands—which are shaking, he just now notices—hover over Akaashi’s chest, and _there is something wrong._ There is no colour on Akaashi’s face, no movement, no steady rising of his chest, and something is empty here, something is gone, something isn’t working right, Akaashi, Akaashi what’s wrong, you’re so pale, can you open your eyes please, Keiji oh God _Keiji_ —

Arms wrap around him as Kuroo pulls him into a hug. And it is only then that Bokuto opens his mouth and starts to scream.

.

.

Bokuto opens his eyes and hears the birds chirping outside, singing morning.

 _This is cruel,_ he thinks, and buries his face in the pillow.

.

Some days are easier than others.

Bokuto shows up at MSBY Black Jackals practices, only to have the coach tell him to get more rest. His teammates regard him with cautious sympathy, but no one tries to bring it up. Atsumu dances around the subject and asks him _how are ya_ and _how are ya holdin’ up_ and _is there anything I can do to help_ , as if worrying about stepping on a landmine. Sakusa brings him snacks and refreshment almost constantly, and sits with him in silence whenever he gets the chance.

Some days are easier than others.

He receives messages from everyone who couldn’t be at the wake or the memorial service. Hinata texts him, apologizing for not having enough money to book a flight back from Brazil. Some of the girls from high school send him flowers and attempt to call.

Bokuto tries to clean up the apartment, but gives up halfway. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, staring at all the half-empty containers, at the towels and dishrags discarded carelessly. Then his eyes drift towards the mirror, the reflection in it showing him, just him, and no one else beside him.

Bokuto sees flashes of white-hot spots as his hand moves, cutting through the air, and his knuckles collide with the reflection. The mirror shudders and cracks in spiderweb ripples. He winces at the pain in his fingers, his hands, but it’s okay, it’ll be okay.

Because some days are going to be easier than others.

One time, a month after everything happened, he runs into Suga and one of Suga’s elementary school students. The kid is excited to see him; they’ve met before during several of his visits to the local schools to teach children volleyball. It’s nice to see her again, to see her eyes sparkle with complete adoration, until she glances around and says, “You should bring your best friend next time! I think you said it was Akaashi-san, right?”

It all comes down on him like a thunderbolt. Bokuto’s hands go numb. His vision swims. An intrusive, portentous wall envelops his chest, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, _it hurts and_ _he can’t breathe_.

“Bokuto,” he hears Suga’s voice saying, calm and critical. There are a pair of hands gentle on his shoulders, and in an instant he is sitting on the ground. He’s gasping for air, but something is constricting in his throat. Everything is tightening.

“Bokuto, it’s okay,” Suga says. Bokuto hears short, staccato breaths, and realizes that it’s his own wheezing. “You’re having a panic attack, but you’re going to be all right. Hey, look at me—good. Just breathe with me. Can you do that?”

And then Suga is breathing with him, fast and hard and struggling at first, and then their breaths gradually slow. _In. And out. That’s right, that’s good. In. And out._

“Where is he,” Bokuto sobs, the second he’s able to. It’s straining his throat. His voice is not quite free yet, the words coming out huskily, but he has to, _he has to_. He desperately looks around at the crowd that is gathering around him, searching for a face, but Akaashi’s not there, _Akaashi’s not there_. “Where is he?”

“Bokuto,” Suga says, looking utterly heartbroken. “I’m sorry. Please breathe with me.”

“ _Where is he_?” Bokuto says, louder this time, because what if no one hears him, what if his voice can’t reach anyone and Akaashi can’t come back to him. “I just need him. I just need him here.” He sobs, ugly and broken. _Please_. “I just need him here with me.”

“He’s gone, Bokuto.” Suga says. “I’m so sorry. He’s gone. Please breathe.”

.

.

Bokuto drapes the blanket over himself and tucks it all around him.

It has been more than a month since the funeral, but the hole inside him hasn’t even come close to healing. He misses Akaashi every second of every minute of every day. The missing hasn’t stopped and probably never will. It seeps through him, straining him lifeless, and never in his life has he been so constantly drained of energy. He feels leaden, dull, trapped. Unable to move. Amidst the emptiness, nagging questions chant in his mind: _What if I had gone with him?_ _What if I had stopped him from going out?_ _What if I had called him earlier so he would know sooner that his phone had dropped?_ And amidst these, there are other questions:

_Why Akaashi?_

_Why did it have to be him?_

_Why couldn't things have worked out?_

They send him into a terrifying, uncontrollable spiral down a pit of blame and hate. Grief feels four-dimensional, abstract; Bokuto feels lost in the foreign depths of it. He’s known the feeling of being alone before, but this is discovering that there’s a whole new level to it that he never thought was possible, and under the blanket there is so much of redefining what the parameters of his world is going to be.

And for him, there is still nothing but Akaashi, Akaashi, Akaashi, with every breath, as the world collapses before him. There is nothing but yearning.

Limp, Bokuto can feel the moon hanging outside behind the clouds. It’s not entirely a circle tonight, not quite any shape at all, with one edge too straight as it shifts in its monthly rotations and pulls the ocean along with it.

Akaashi, Akaashi, Akaashi.

Keiji.

Everything feels empty.

_Keiji._

_It’s cold tonight_ , he prays.

_I want to stroke your hair._

.

He’s sitting on the windowsill, staring at the world outside, when the apartment door opens.

“You didn’t even lock your door,” Kuroo says, sighing.

Bokuto doesn’t say anything as Kuroo takes off his shoes and walks towards him.

“This place is a mess,” Kuroo says softly. “What are you doing?”

Bokuto just makes a dismissive noise and turns away, his attention reverting back to one of the sparrows outside taking flight.

“Hey,” Kuroo says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m tired,” Bokuto says. He just wishes Kuroo would leave him alone. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to eat. He doesn’t want to do anything. It’s all so draining.

Kuroo seems to notice that he isn’t going to elaborate when the silence stretches, so he sits on the windowsill opposite him.

“I wasn’t sure when was best for me to give you this,” Kuroo says, watching Bokuto’s face carefully, as if regarding a wild feral animal. Bokuto stares back, his eyes following Kuroo’s hands as he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small, black leather box.

The shocking realization hits him, icy cold water in his guts, as Kuroo opens it. “It’s what Akaashi and I secretly shopped for,” Kuroo says, “the day he died.”

It’s a ring.

“He wanted my help, because apparently I’m the closest friend to you,” he continues, scratching his head. The ring sits mutely on his palm. “And I guess he wanted a second opinion, to get something you really liked. I don’t know when he was gonna propose, but this is—I guess this is just to let you know that he was going to.”

_It’s a ring._

Bokuto grabs Kuroo’s shirt and slams him hard against the wall.

“ _What the hell did you do this for_ ,” he snarls, the uncontainable anger seeping out of him and all he can think of is _violence_.

“Jesus Christ,” Kuroo says, wincing. “What the hell did _you_ do _that_ for?”

“Why did you tell me this?” Bokuto’s voice rises to an almost shout. “What is this—some kind of, some kind of _thing_ to make me feel worse? So that I can think, ‘oh, if I had been quicker with my proposal, he wouldn’t have gone out of his way to buy this and he wouldn’t have d-died’? Was that what this is?! And I was going to—i-if I had just done it sooner, he—he wouldn’t—”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Kuroo growls, surprising Bokuto for a second, and that is all it takes for Kuroo to push him back and send him stumbling to the floor. “I told you because he loved you, you _idiot_. He loved you and he wanted a life with you.”

“Well neither of us have that now, do we,” Bokuto snaps.

Kuroo doesn’t reply; just frowns.

Heartbreak is inevitable, Bokuto knows. It’s the natural outcome of caring for people and things that you have no control over, of holding in affection for those who eventually will move beyond your line of sight. But the ache of it is immeasurable. He thought love was supposed to make him happy, but was that just a childish dream? You can never love someone long enough, or strong enough, to outlive the white space in between this world and the next, to stop the undercurrents of time from wounding you anew. And if love is the reason for this crushing pain in the center of his body, if love is suffering through waking up in the dark and slowly feeling your way as you go **,** then he never wants to love again.

Bokuto doesn’t realize that he has said the last part out loud until Kuroo says, “Are you giving up? Is that what you're saying?”

He can feel the tears pouring out of him, the salt of it tangible in his throat, his tongue.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he strains, the words tumbling out of his mouth and bleeding all over the room, painting it in the red of everything ugly Bokuto has been trying his best to repress, and half of him doesn’t care whether or not Kuroo thinks this makes any discernible sense. “What are you supposed to do when you wake up at 3 AM and you’re all alone? And you can—you can feel it in your bones. I-I don’t know what to do. How do you move on from something like this? I don’t understand how people can just—move on, go on with their lives. What if I can’t do it? What if I can’t feel anything else for the rest of my life?”

“You will,” Kuroo says, the certainty in it nearly infuriating. “You will, I know it.”

“You don’t _know_ it! You don’t _know_ how _I_ feel!”

“You’re right. I don’t know how you feel. I won’t pretend to understand. But Akaashi was still my friend, Bokuto,” Kuroo says, his voice hollow. “I watched him die. It’s not like I don’t know loss.”

Bokuto stares at him, at the hard lines in his face that comes with bereavement. There is really no making sense of it. Akaashi was twenty-one, his whole life stretching out ahead of him in the hopeful, yawning blankness of it. It is another kind of heartbreak, Bokuto thinks, to know that things don’t always happen for a reason, to realize with hideous embarrassment that making such a statement, despite its logical accuracy, is nothing but an insult.

_Keiji._

_Keiji Keiji Keiji._ Who is there to blame?

The question falls from him, not quite expectantly and barely above a breath, “Why do people have to die?”

He feels movement, and then Kuroo is kneeling in front of him. “To make life important,” Kuroo says quietly, giving him a small smile and placing a hand on his head. It has been a senselessly long time since someone has touched him affectionately in this way, and the fact that it’s not Akaashi makes him want to retch.

“Listen,” Kuroo continues to say. “The love you have for each other doesn’t die with him. It doesn’t even die with you. I know it all feels impossible right now. And I’m sorry. But if time doesn’t heal, it’ll anesthetize, and that’s honestly better than nothing. I _know_ you’ll be okay.”

.

_In his dreams, Bokuto is at the bottom of the cliff._

He’s standing on sand, the orange sun turning the sky twilight: a dusky red-purple littered with silver stars blinking in and out of existence. Akaashi is next to him, their shoulders almost touching as the ocean waves lap onto shore.

“Keiji,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi turns to him and smiles, the soft happiness behind it blinding him.

 _You never come here anymore_ , he says; but it’s an echo, not quite a voice, reverberating through the walls of dreams.

“Don’t go,” Bokuto pleads. “Don’t leave me.”

Akaashi lifts his hand and touches Bokuto on the cheek, only it isn’t quite a touch, because Akaashi is now smoke and ashes.

 _I’m still with you,_ he says.

They spend the next while together simply talking. They walk along the jagged line where water meets sand, their feet bare and their laughter ringing in the near empty space. Bokuto doesn’t quite remember everything, but time never exists within his dreams anyway.

When the sun disappears beneath the horizon where the ocean curves, Bokuto stops and watches as Akaashi walks ahead of him. He can hear the birds chirping in the faint distance, singing mourning, and knows that he has already lost everything. He takes in Akaashi’s form, his angles, his hair, the way he squares his shoulders. Bokuto thinks it’s ironic, how magnificent Akaashi looks in this moment. He looks alive, invincible, brimming with vitality, and it’s really such a shame that people are always the most beautiful just as they’re walking away from you. Just as they shatter into a thousand memories and leave you.

.

.

Three months pass.

Bokuto wakes up sometimes, the nightmares bloodying his vision, until reality sets in and he dashes to the bathroom and heaves.

Four months pass.

He tidies up his apartment. It’s neater, cleaner, until he bumps into the box of post-in notes at the bottom of Akaashi’s desk.

He cries, the dehydration giving him a dizzying headache, and even then he doesn’t stop crying until sleep overwhelms him.

Five months pass.

He goes to practice and manages to hit a perfect line shot. The panic attack that day lasts half the time it did with Suga.

 _I’m still with you,_ the ghost had said. It sounded ridiculous when he first remembers it, but surely Akaashi has become a part of him, like a layer of firm ground, with the present days piled on top of it. The missing never stops.

Six months pass, and Bokuto is running through the streets in early morning.

He has been slightly out of shape, but as he woke up today in silence and saw the empty streets filled with sparse cars through the window, he decides to put on his jacket and running shoes and step outside.

 _If time doesn’t heal,_ Kuroo said, _it’ll anesthetize_.

But that’s not entirely true. He hasn’t forgotten the pain. He hasn’t been deprived of all the suffering, of all the agony that has once eaten him alive. All he has done is live through it. All time has done is give him the space he needs to recreate an identity and understand how to navigate the bottomless pit that death has left in its wake.

Because grief is a lifelong process, and it will be years before the knots in his heart would thin enough for him to see the ocean again. Because to feel even remotely okay, he has to keep going. He has to keep running, keep playing, he has to cross an uncertain and terrifying path ahead of him to get to a point where he can honestly say that he’s happy again, and before he’s halfway there he has to be a quarter-way there, and it’s really just one step at a time. Task focus. But oh God, sometimes it seems so impossibly long.

 _See,_ an echo says, kindness in its voice. _You can make it. You’ll be okay_.

Whether by instinct or by an invisible pull of a moment long, long ago, he breathes in and gazes up to the sky, blue and still moving.

.


End file.
